


A Bigger Kind of Kill

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Tales of Berseria, Tales of Series, Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Mid-Canon, Or: how to decide when to kill your dragon brother, Possible Minor Berseria Spoilers, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: You can take me to the dragon's lairOr you can take me to Rapunzel's windowsillEither way,





	

**Author's Note:**

> OOOOO baby's first completed Tales fic! I have a couple of ToX2 ones I'm working on....and another Berseria...........Help, Tales is good, actually
> 
> Summary from "Dragon's Lair" by Sunset Rubdown. Go listen to it if you want 10 and a half minutes of zaveizen angst?

“I had a dream.”

On the other side of the fire, Edna turns. It takes great effort to move that mountain—Zaveid doesn’t know if it runs in the family, or runs in the Earthen. Either answer fits, but neither solves the problem.  Edna turns, and he is glad for it, what more can he say? Caution is etched in her too-soft face,  eyes squinted over the sparks and the flames, ready to pass judgement, should his grave undertone be fake, should he try to make a fool’s joke at her expense. He doesn’t blame her, because he _would_. But for now, he isn’t.

“Oh,” Edna says flatly, as if she is acknowledging the obvious, not caring to ask more, too smart to give him any benefit of the doubt. She isn’t Sorey, gullible and sweet, she isn’t Mikleo, wound up around a stick in his ass. She’s not Lailah, lackadaisical, nor Rose who asks even though she knows the answer, just so she can laugh, or smack, or both. She’s Edna. Her hands are always on the wheel of her ship, just as her brother, years before her.

Ironically, he’s the same reason she falters.

Zaveid thinks she knows it already, from the way she deigned to turn her head and bother with a response. Edna doesn’t humor people—and she certainly doesn’t humor him. So Zaveid speaks:

“He was in a tower, all alone. Had his back turned to me. I’m not sure how I could see him from where I stood but y’know how dreams are, they don’t make sense,” He pauses. Edna is watching him, gaze tight,  her eyes unreadable against the flame. “Well, I craned my head, and for whatever reason, his coat was sheet white. And—and when I saw that, I felt with this…unshakable certainty, that he was...back. You know. Purified.”

“That’s dumb.” Edna says softly.

“No, it’s not,” Zaveid says. “It’s just dream stuff, like I told you.”

Edna mutters something under her breath.

“Haven’t you ever felt like that?”

“No,” Edna sniffs. “Dream or not, it’s still just a color. I don’t see why I’d fall for it in my head if I wouldn’t fall for it out here.”

“Hey,” Zaveid shifts, turning his head, but not lifting it from the cradle of his hands. “That’s a damned lie.” Edna is still and silent, pretending she didn’t hear him. “You’re trying to tell me you never get weird sensations? Sudden _imparted knowledge_? Supernatural understanding? Fuckin’ nonsense?”

“Not if it’s dumb,” Edna is firm. “And the color business is dumb.”

Zaveid entertains the thought of chasing this rabbit—but refrains. He’s gone off course, like always. Nothing to do but steer it back on.

“Whatever. That’s not the point, just, buy into it for a hot second, will you?” Edna sighs, and Zaveid takes it as a ‘yes,’ whether she meant it or not.

“My brother always said that black and white meant nothing without context.” Edna interrupts before he can even begin again.

“Huh. That so?” Zaveid shifts, taken aback. He still doesn’t know anything about art, about its symbolism. He used to call Eizen weird for it, a teasing habit that he now regrets. “Well, aren’t my feelings enough? That’s context, right?”

Edna rolls onto her other side. “Shut up.”

“Hey—“

“Shut up.” She repeats, harsher this time.

The air turns heavy. Not even Zaveid can break that kind of quiet.

\---

Once, years and years ago, after a heated match that had ended in (yet another) stalemate—they drank together.

It was the third or fourth time he had tried to kill Eizen. Or maybe the fifth. He quickly lost track. It was _their_ third fight though—that much was hard to forget.

Edna beat the shit out of him. His ears were ringing and his body ran black and blue while she stood over him, eyes empty, parasol in hand.

“Hahah!” Zaveid laughed, and coughed, and laughed again. “You’re…definitely his sister.” That made two people who could beat him that senseless. No—there was a third. The Crow. He didn’t like to call her Calamity.

“Shut up,” Edna grunted.

“You gonna finish me this time?”

“…”

No, he assumed, because again, she was _definitely his sister._

“Get up,” She said.

Zaveid blinked rapidly. He didn’t expect an execution, but this—“Excuse’m?”

“I said get up.”

He did. Very painfully.

“Not getting any farther than this, ma’am” He croaked, cross-legged.

“Ugh.” She twirled her parasol and rolled her eyes, a magic circle etching itself around her feet. Bells chimed, and a shower of light fell over Zaveid, casting off his ringing ears and swimming vision bit by bit. He wiped the last stream of blood from his nose and raised his brow.

“Wow,” He said. “Kinda cute.”

“Watch it,” Edna closed the parasol with a snap. “That’s all the healing you’re gonna get.”

She took him up the mountainside, denying any effort he made at conversation along the way. She stopped up at a cave, spacious and barely furnished. It looked sad, until Edna took out a bottle of something, and rocks be damned, he could deal.

“Nice place you got here,” Zaveid settled into the biggest cushion he could find and crossed his arms. “I mean, if you like things _rustic_.”

“Can it,” Edna approached with two glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other. She sat across from Zaveid, put the glasses between them, and filled them to the top with what looked like white wine. Fancy, Zaveid thought.

“My brother got it,” She said, watching his gaze. “He has a good eye for these things.”

_Had_ a good eye, Zaveid wanted to correct. He held his tongue.

“Aren’t you a little, uh,” He gave Edna a once over, just in case. “Young?”

“I’m well into my several-hundreds, thank you very much.”

Zaveid suddenly felt sad. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would keep her appearance so young. He knew the answer to her decision. He didn’t want to ask it.

Just in case he ever came back, huh? Idiot. He never would,

“—and even if he did, he’d recognize you no matter what.” Zaveid downed his glass in one gulp upon realizing he’d let his thought slip into the physical realm.

“Yeah, and I didn’t ask you,” Edna, in contrast, sipped neatly at her drink, legs folded like a little princess. What a girl, he thought. Terrifying.

“Sheesh,” Zaveid scoffed, and poured himself another one. “Guess that runs in the family too.”

“What does?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Uh. Y’know. Brusqueness. Weird shit.” He gestured widely with one hand as he knocked back his second drink. He slowed a bit, noticing her gaze. “Not the same _kind_ of weird though.”

“Oh?” Edna cocked an eyerbrow, lips pursed. “You’re really rude, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot.” He laughed, but he felt empty. “You must get it too.”

“I don’t go out much anymore.”

They fell silent.

“Listen—“ Zaveid started.

“—To what? A half-assed excuse for your dragon-slaying?” Now Edna finished her drink in a gulp. “No. I’m not.”

Well then, Zaveid thought, bitter, lot of progress they’re making. He put up his hands in defense.

“Okay. Then why are _you_ protecting him?”

Edna stopped altogether. She suddenly looked just the same as when they clashed hours earlier, when she smashed a rock into his gut, blazing, dangerous, about to break. He set down his glass.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.” He meant it too. He really shouldn’t have asked.

Edna’s glare softened into a kind of misery he knew all-too well. She looked like him, all those years ago, swatted away by Theodora—Shenlong’s—tail.

A thunderous noise sounded overhead, then gusts of wind in short bursts. They didn’t need to acknowledge what monstrosity could make such a clamor.

“He’s restless,” Edna whispered. She had been going to pour another glass, but her fingers had slipped from the bottleneck, the glass untouched. “Guess that much hasn’t changed.”

Zaveid did not answer right away. He was uncertain how to respond to something like that—a terrible mix of old and new. The pause was uncharacteristic of him—even Edna, as little as she knew him—could tell that much.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “He’d get worked up real bad sometimes. Try to keep it all in and wait it out… never worked. Had to go stomp and scream. Or laugh. Just…be, you know?”

“We’d wrestle,” Edna said. “I think that’s about the same thing.”

“Yeah, well, we did that too,” Zaveid laughed. “The sexy kind, though.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, I know.” He paused. “Who won?”

“What?”

“When you wrestled.”

Edna made a face. “I was a kid. It was all fake.” She leaned in, but looked off in separate direction. “How about you?”

“Wait—” Zaveid’s turn to make a face.

“Who won? When you _wrestled_.”

Zaveid shrugged. “You mean who topped? We switched.”

“You know,” She mumbled, finally refilling her glass. “I regret asking that.”

“…Yeah, I figured you would.”

\---

He finds Edna perched on a rock, clearly built from her own whims, not natural forces. It’s a ten minute walk from camp, a seal to a purposeful, chosen, loneliness. Her knees are clutched close to her chest, facing the breeze, parasol left delicately at her side. Zaveid doesn’t have the tact to care.

“Do you just like to be tall, or what?” Zaveid laughs, looking up. “Make you feel important, or something?”

Edna lifts her head from her arms and shoots him a look. It’s a special look, one that has somehow, somewhere, become _The_ Look. The nicest, quietest _‘Fuck You’_ a girl could give. Zaveid’s hands go up in his own standard greeting—the laziest, most casual _“Love You Too”_ a girl’s brother’s ex-lover could give.

They’re surprisingly jovial, considering the word trickling through the group as of late. They talk of possibly returning to Rayfalke soon, and they all know that there’s only one reason to go to Rayfalke.

“The other night,” Edna’s voice sounds soft and distant, completely removed from her spirit. “You sounded like you thought you could save him.”

Zaveid frowns and leans against her rock, back to her. “Did I?”

“You did.”

He sighs. “It was just a dream.”

“That’s not… what you said at the time.” She’s right. She may still be right.

“I’ve turned bitter,” Edna laughs dryly. “I thought there might still be a way. But that’s dumb. I was being dumb.”

Zaveid had always thought he’d feel content, if and when the day came that Edna accepted what had to be done. Now that it’s here, he wants to turn tail and _run_.

“Shit.” He leans his head all the way back. “…Shit.” They’ve traded places—kind of. Edna knows it too. He wanted to kill him, Edna wanted to cure him. They both wanted to save him. And now—neither of them knows what to do. They’ve met in an unhappy middle.

“How come Sorey gives you hope,” Edna mutters. “And makes me want to off myself?”

“Hey that’s a little…” Zaveid shakes his head. Edna will be Edna. “…I don’t know." He says with a long, whistling exhale. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe we’ll both change our minds,” A sharp noise comes from up and over him. Zaveid can only assume its Edna launching a chunk of rock into the air to watch it land some yards away, bouncing off the grass and pebbles.

“Would you want it that way?” Zaveid hardly understands what he’s asking—he only knows it sounds right.

“…I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.” Her voice cracks, her hands rustle against her sundress. “I want another option.”

“Hah,” Zaveid wants to—tries to—make it a joke. He can’t. “I…I want one too.”

“But you can’t, right?”

“Yeah. I can’t.” That’s right. At the end of it all, he’s not acting on his own feelings. He’s acting on Eizen’s. He swore to that hundreds of years prior, and by his name, he’s gotta keep it. By his name, and the name Eizen entrusted to him—the name that launched something between them, whatever that was, whatever let his dear Theodora be _free_. Love he thinks. Love, not death.

“Promised,” He adds dryly. “Can’t go back on it.”

Edna is silent for a moment. The breeze picks up, carrying their hair and clothes to gentle heights, flapping the cloth against stone and air. It’s not quite peaceful—not quite good—but it is comforting to some corner of his soul.

“…Do you think,” Edna’s voice is terribly small, constricted by tears that certainly threaten to break from her lips. “He’d change his mind? If there was another way? If he knew it?”

Zaveid rests his hand over his eyes. He’s preempted Edna, tears having already fallen, silent and cruel. “Maybe,” He replies. “Maybe. But I’m not him.”

“Can we wait, just a little longer?” She asks.

“…Yeah. We can.”

They do.


End file.
